


Beside the Wild Atlantic

by SherlocksSister



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Ancient Artifacts, Bamf mrs.hudson, Case Fic, Grief/Mourning, Honeymoon, Intercrural Sex, Ireland, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mutual Masturbation, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Neurodiversity, Pastries, Romance, Thigh sex, Trinity College, Wedding Planning, Weddings, doubts, is that a thing? it is now, post-s4, wedding presents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-08-30 19:54:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8546956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister/pseuds/SherlocksSister
Summary: Set two years after the events of Series 4 - and everything is good between our boys. Join them as they honeymoon around Ireland and try to solve two mysteries in one. John proposes and Sherlock accepts but getting married and staying that way is not always so easy.





	1. A Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my beta [Breath4Soul](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul) for all their help.

Dropping his unread novel to his lap, John lifts his eyes to contemplate the profile of the man sat in front of him. In the last hour of easy silence, he had finally reached a decision. It had only taken him nine years. Never let it be said that John Watson rushes into anything: apart from burning buildings, unexploded bomb sites and the hideouts of serial killers, obviously, but that was different.

In his time with both Ella and his grief counsellor, John had been introduced to the practise of mindfulness, the idea that whenever he felt overwhelmed or panicky, he should just stop, breathe and concentrate on that moment. Not on the maelstrom of his blood ridden past and not on the wilderness of the future. Just the here and now.

 

This here and now is a little piece of heaven, John thinks; the warmth of the fire on his lower left leg, the sounds of the rain and wind hitting the windows, emergency vehicle sirens and the clicks of a mouse. He can smell tea, smoke, a hint of their earlier lemongrass chicken curry and can feel the soft denim of his favourite jeans under his fingers.

 

Only four feet away, directly in front of him at their desk, sits Sherlock, eyes flicking from one screen to another, face creasing in concentration. John’s eyes trace the lines of his legs, crossed at the ankle and tucked under his chair, dark blue dressing gown bunched around his thighs, arms resting on the desk, long fingers of one hand resting on a keyboard and the other on the mouse for the second lap top. John sighs, every single square millimetre is precious to him.

 

He would never have survived the last two years without Sherlock. When he could see or speak to no-one else, Sherlock was the one who he would cope with. They had sat together, in silence, for hours at a time, Sherlock just holding his hand, or simply next to him. Sherlock had been the only one to see him cry.

As the awful, blood-stopping grief had eased, Sherlock had been there, by his side. Sherlock had been the one to make him smile for the first time in ten months without instantly being crushed by guilt. Gently, little by little, the man had tempted John back out into the world, all the time sheltering his heart. Sherlock had never, not once, pushed for what he wanted with John, had gently resisted John the first time he had tried to kiss Sherlock, knowing it was not yet right, not yet time.

 

Now, John was ready for new start, to draw a line under that life and start the one he suspected he was supposed to have all along if only he had been braver. Not to forget, he would never do that, but to John needed to know Sherlock would always be with him, be his.

 

He had imagined this moment in so many ways, elaborate, romantic, daring, sweaty and even, once, on the London Eye. This was the moment though. He had always known he would recognise it when it came.

“John. Please do stop staring at me, it is most off putting,” Sherlock glowers.

 

John laughs. Perfect, he thinks, that makes this all the easier. Glancing momentarily at the small wooden box on the mantelpiece he gathers his focus once more.

 

“Sherlock?"

 

“Mmmm?”

 

“What do you think about marriage?”

 

“That it is a patriarchal construct that is designed to subjugate women as the property of a man, reducing her to something to be owned. That it has evolved from human beings need to pair bond in order to provide sufficient food and shelter to raise children. It is the direct cause of 27.4% of all homicides in the UK and yet married people who manage not to succumb to a violent death live, on average, seven years longer than those from similar socio-economic backgrounds who remain single. It is ..”

 

“I should have been more precise. What are your thoughts on marriage between us? You and me?”

 

Sherlock finally turns to face John, his expression blank. John understands this means he is giving John’s question due consideration.

 

“That it would be…… good?” Sherlock shrugs, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

 

“Ok.” John smiles,” Now please tell me what you really think of the idea of you and me getting married. Have you ever thought about it before?”

 

“Well, briefly. Occasionally. However, I feel no need to own you or for you to own me. Neither of us requires a dowry and it is now unlikely we shall be raising children.” Sherlock drops his eyelashes. For a moment, neither man speaks.

 

“You have forgotten something in your analysis,” John encourages gently, grinning now, “there’s always something.”

 

Sherlock meets his eye, “Ah, sentiment.”

 

“Yes. Sentiment. I love you.”

 

“And I you, John.”

 

“Marriage is one way of showing that love to the world. Saying ‘I intend to be with this person for the rest of my life’ and you can all shove off”.

 

“There are other ways of showing our love to the world,” Sherlock arches an eyebrow.

 

“Yes, and you know we were nearly arrested after that little incident. Seriously, Sherlock, is marriage something you could want? I know I’m an old romantic and it wouldn’t change anything, but I have to admit, it appeals to me.” Both men carefully avoid the fact that they already know this.

 

Sherlock stands up and moves to look out of the window. He has been taken by surprise by this conversation and that fact alone unsettles him. 

 

“You need to understand that marriage has never been something I expected to happen. Being gay has always precluded it until recently but more so, just the simple fact of being, well, me.” He turns to face John, his face a mixture of rebellion and anxiety.“I may not be the man you first met nine years ago, but are you sure you could really put up with another twenty or thirty years of me?”

 

John reaches out to stroke that beloved face, smooths away the anxiety,“If we can survive being shot at, blown up, you being dead, me marrying someone else, you being exiled and, well everything that happened after that, then yes. I believe I can put up with you.” John’s voice changes, takes on a huskier note. “Please let me put up with you. I want to make you happy.”

 

“Well, that’s settled then.” Sherlock is happier now the is  back in control of the situation. 

 

“We are agreed that at some point in the future, we will get married.” He returns to his chair in front of the laptops, hand reaching out for the mouse.

 

John clears his throat and stands up “Sherlock Holmes,” he reaches out his hand to Sherlock, pulling him back up so they are stood, holding hands, on the rug between their chairs, lit only by the light of the fire and two laptop screens, “William Scott Sherlock Holmes. The man who saved me from myself, the man who died for me, the bravest and wisest man I have ever know, will you marry me?”

 

Surprised for the second time in the one conversation, something that virtually never happens to Sherlock Holmes, he is silent for just a second, staring at John. His enormous brain processing multiple variables all at the same time but each thought obliterated by one; John will be mine, only mine.

 

“Yes, John Watson. I will marry you. And I died for you twice.”

 


	2. Celebration

The kiss reminds John of their first genuine kiss; soft, sweet and careful. Unlike that first time, no one pulls away, embarrassed and ready to run. This kiss soon becomes something much more insistent and demanding, John running his hands under Sherlock’s dressing gown, smoothing over his t-shirt and resting on his hips. Sherlock groans into John’s mouth, dropping his own hands over John’s thighs and cupping his arse to pull him inexorably closer. Kissing, sucking and mouthing over John’s jaw line until he reaches his ear. Sherlock leans in and breathes:

“Show me I’m yours, John. Prove it.”

John’s heart and dick expanded simultaneously. God, he loves this exquisite, perplexing and infuriating man.

“Oh, you are mine alright. No one else’s, ever again. Do you understand me?” Possessively, he rubs his hands up under the T-shirt to smooth the planes of Sherlock’s chest, rubbing and pinching both nipples. He lifts the T-shirt to lick and suck on each nipple in turn, making Sherlock keen.

Carefully, he moves behind Sherlock and drops the dressing gown, watching as it slithers into a puddle on the rug. He leans in close and breathes on the back of Sherlock’s neck, not quite touching him, holding there for a long moment until he moves his lips just close enough to kiss the nape of Sherlock’s neck. It’s like an electric current has flown down the larger man’s spine and he gasps, breathing hard.

John loves Sherlock like this; sensitised, pliant, waiting, listening, thinking of nothing but what John will do next.

What he does is step in, his full body pressing into Sherlock as his left hand slowly traces down Sherlock’s stomach, hip and thigh until John reaches his hard dick, and gives it just one long slow slide upwards to appreciate the heat, girth and length of the man. John buries his nose in the back of Sherlock’s neck inhaling his citrusy aftershave and the intoxicating scent of his skin.

“Take your clothes off.”

John steps back to watch, glorying in seeing the sleekly muscled skin emerge from the mundane pyjama bottoms and old grey T-shirt. He has two particular favourite parts to this process, firstly the reveal of Sherlock’s broad, smooth shoulders and then the sight of Sherlock’s rounded, soft arse. He growls in appreciation as both are unveiled for him.

Sherlock stands for a moment, his back to John, his skin stark contrasts of warm light and deep shade in the small light from the fire.

“Jesus Fuck, but you’re beautiful!” John knows Sherlock will be disparaging of his praise, still dismissive despite John’s best efforts to persuade him of his attractiveness. Still, even now after two years of this, it astounds John that he had the right to touch, to caress, to kiss.

The need to make Sherlock his shocks John with its force. He tears out of his own jeans and T-shirt, shoes and underwear and is behind Sherlock again, pressing every inch of himself into the taller man. His hard cock presses into the crack of that plush arse and Sherlock wiggles back on him as John grinds forward. His hands slide over those shoulders to Sherlock’s hair and pull, just the right side of pain as he licks a broad stripe down Sherlock’s spine.

Sherlock tries to turn to face John but one strong arm keeps him where he is, facing John’s chair, while the other hand strokes and soothes its way down to Sherlock’s hard dick. When John squeezes, Sherlock’s knees flex and John has to grab him to keep him upright.

It was then that Sherlock does something that John will remember until he is a very old man, the image seared into his brain, available to him in technicolour every time he thinks of the day their relationship moves towards marriage. Sherlock leans forward, supporting himself with his hands on the arms of John’s chair, undulates his arse and looks over his shoulder at John.

“Yours.”

John squeaks with lust and flails around for lube, finding some hidden in a desk drawer. He rapidly slicks up his fingers and leans over Sherlock’s back sliding one finger gently inside. Sherlock grunts and presses back.

“More.”

A second and third finger opens Sherlock up for John but he takes great care to avoid Sherlock’s prostate. With his other hand, he swipes lube onto his own aching cock. Without any hesitation, he thrusts all the way into Sherlock in one smooth movement, fingertips gripping Sherlock’s hips tightly and pulling him back onto John.

“Mine,” growls John and he begins to fuck Sherlock hard, making sure he hits his prostate with every thrust. Sherlock’s hand flies on his own needy cock as he growls John’s name, his arse pushing back, spine curved and head thrown back. He comes first, hard, covering the back of John’s chair in spurts. John comes three or four thrusts later, his arm wrapping around Sherlock’s belly to keep him upright. His own knees buckle and he unceremoniously pulls out as they fall to the floor, panting and laughing.

Cleaning up and recovered enough to walk, they fall into bed. Sherlock snuggles up beside John, his own arm bent under his head and considers the moment. He, Sherlock Holmes, is engaged to be married. Of all the things he had ever put his mind to, this has to be one of the most improbable. He sneaks a look at John, eyes closed, hand resting gently on his own chest. The fact that they are even here in the room together, let alone in a relationship, let alone engaged to be married is extraordinary. Sherlock begins to laugh.

“Wha?” John mutters, failing to open his eyes.

“You are my fiancé. When Lestrade calls to offer us a case, I can say ‘just a moment, Chief Inspector, I must first ask my fiancé if he is available to assist’ and he will exclaim, ‘your what?’ and I shall respond ‘my fiancé, Lestrade. Do keep up!’” The bed shakes as Sherlock giggles.

John manages to raise one lid to peer at him. “C'm ‘ere, fiancé,” and wraps himself around the languid Sherlock, rubbing his nose into the softest part of Sherlock’s neck. “Need my rest, got a wedding to plan,” and he promptly falls asleep.


	3. Doubts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is having some doubts about getting married and some truths are shared.

Sherlock is jerked awake the next morning by the sound of the water pipes groaning and the kettle being filled and switched on. Surfacing, he’s aware of the comforting heat of John still next to him, producing gentle puffing snores. He sits bolt upright, infuriated. Bloody Mycroft!  He leaps out of bed and yanks his dressing gown from the back of the door.

 

The acerbic insult he had resting on his bottom lip to spit at his brother dries up when he sees the kitchen table. Neatly laid out are; plates, cups and saucers, a selection of jams and marmalades in dainty miniature jars, a basket of various pastries and two servings of poached eggs resting on artisan bread. Mycroft’s jacket is hanging on the back of one of the chairs and his sleeves are rolled up. A strange noise emanates from him as he fills both a cafetiere and tea pot with boiling water.

 

“Good morning, brother mine” Mycroft throws over his shoulder, “Is your doctor awake yet?”

 

“What the hell, Mycroft?”

 

“I would have thought even you could deduce breakfast, Sherlock. Do call John, the eggs are getting cold. Ah, there he is.”

 

John and Sherlock exchange a puzzled glance. John, however, is always inclined to eat first and ask questions second and, after a brief trip to the bathroom, is soon tucking into his poached eggs with appreciation. Sherlock picks at his but at least drinks the coffee Mycroft puts in front of him.

 

As they eat, the peculiar tonal drone begins again. John peers around, thinking maybe there is a wasp or bluebottle trapped in the room. Sherlock shakes his head then nods at Mycroft who is busy washing up the pan he used to cook the eggs. John realises the noise is coming from Mycroft. He seems to be _humming?_

 

With a cup of tea, Mycroft picks at a raisin and custard Danish and beams at the two men. It’s unsettling.

 

“May I be the first to congratulate you on your upcoming happy event? Maybe you should have taken the hint the first time we met, John. It would have saved us all a considerable amount of trouble.”

 

Sherlock frowns at him. “You also offered to pay him to spy on me. Would you like to repeat that generous offer?”

 

John snorts and nearly loses his tea out of his nose. “Thank you for the lovely breakfast, Mycroft, it was a kind thought and thank you for your congratulations.” He looks pointedly at Sherlock who, in turn, completely ignores him.

 

“Now, Sherlock. We have plans to make. Do you wish to make an announcement in The Times? Mummy would be so delighted. The wedding, will it be at home or here in London? I will, of course, be at your assistance. I can recommend one or two more, shall we say, exclusive venues.” Mycroft’s eyes gleam.

 

God, thinks John, he really is loving this. Maybe all he has ever really wanted is for Sherlock to be happy after all. “We haven’t made any plans yet,” he smiles, “I think The Times might be a bit unnecessary though. What about you Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock is suddenly overwhelmed. Memories of the last time he planned a wedding assault him and the gut-tearing and twisting pain of losing John all over again. He freezes, staring at Mycroft but only seeing Mary. He  hears his own violin music and he watches John dance; with her.

 

Sherlock slams his tea cup onto the table and storms into their bedroom. John expects Mycroft will make a swift exit at this dramatic show of emotions. Instead, he calmly starts clearing up the shattered bone china and systematically clears the breakfast dishes. It’s almost as if he was expecting this, John thinks.

 

Experience has taught John that it is more productive to give Sherlock a few minutes alone to process his emotions at a time like this. Unlike other people that John has been in relationships with, this is not a cry for attention or an attempt at the melodramatic. Well, it is sometimes, but mostly John can tell the difference and he knows this is not one of those times. He silently dries a few dishes next to Mycroft before excusing himself, following Sherlock into their bedroom.

 

Sherlock is sat on their bed, staring out of the window, straight-backed, with his hands in his lap. They have never had this conversation. Events overtook them somewhat and there was never a right time. It seems that now is the time, right or not. John sits on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock, close but not touching him and lays his hand, palm up in the space between them. Sherlock looks at it, sighs and takes it. They sit in silence for a moment.

 

“It’s a long time ago now,” Sherlock offers.

 

“Not that long, really. Sometimes, it feels like yesterday.”

 

“I don’t understand why I am still so hurt. Angry. I have no right.”

 

On the surface, John agrees. Sherlock doesn’t have a right. He won. Sherlock is here now with John and Mary is not. If logic could be applied to human emotions, that is it in a nutshell. However, John knows, unlike Sherlock, feelings and logic rarely go hand in hand.

 

John squeezes Sherlock’s hand. For so many years now he has been Sherlock’s dinghy in the churning seas of human emotions, guiding him back to safe land. In this particular instance though, John is himself buffeted and dragged along by unseen currents. One thing he does know though is that they need to address this before they have any hope of a successful marriage. Not to would leave them unmoored on shifting sands. He decides to leave his analogy there as it seems to be getting away from him a bit.

 

“I am not going to apologise for marrying her.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “I know.”

 

“I am sorry for the pain it caused you, none of it was done intentionally to hurt you, but I am not sorry for Mary, or for marrying her.”

 

“You loved her.” It is a statement, not a question. This is old ground.

 

“I did.”

 

“Even after she shot me.” This too has been covered, explanations offered breathlessly as they clung to each other that first time. John knows they are getting close now to the heart of the matter.

 

“If she hadn’t died, would you have still chosen me? Eventually?”

 

There it is in a nutshell. Is Sherlock second best, a consolation prize? Is everything they have shared together over the last two years John compromising and taking comfort where he can find it, turning to the last remaining person in his life that cares for him and making the best of it? The thing is, John actually knows the answer. This is exactly the question he has asked himself over the last six months.

 

Moving to the centre of the bed, crossing his legs, John rests a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and gets him to turn so they are face to face. He becomes aware that the rattling in the kitchen has also stopped. He wonders if Mycroft has left. It’s more likely he’s standing on the other side of the door listening.

 

“It has always been you, love. From the day I met you until now, nothing and no-one has ever come close to how I feel about you. From what I can gather from other people, that’s rare. Then we – you- fucked it up so spectacularly that I gave up on it, on us, ever happening.” He raises a hand to silence Sherlock “Yes, I now understand why you fell, for me and I will never, ever forget that as long as I live, but it happened and we both know the consequences.”

 

John takes a deep breath, he’s not too inclined to make big emotional speeches, “I am a different man now, not the man that fell in love with you nine years ago but _this_ man fell in love with you all over again. It has always been you. Only ever you. That’s why I want us to get married. So that if anything should ever happen to me, you will know, the world will know, that we are everything to each other.”

 

Sherlock opens his arms and John crawls to him. They hold each other for a long moment. Sherlock kisses John’s eyelids and, very gently, his lips.

 

“I love you, Sherlock.”

 

“Quite right too.”

 

There is a gentle rustle of a suit jacket being put on and a deliberately muffled click of the living room door being closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to my lovely beta Breath4Soul for her help and numerous improvements.


	4. Wedding Wars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weddings; everyone has an opinion.   
> Thanks to Breath4Soul for her excellent beta skills

Considerably later that day, Sherlock and John are seated at Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen table, being force-fed fresh scones with butter, jam and cream. While John is delighted to see Sherlock put away some food for the second time in one day, he wonders if all these cakes are a good idea for his own waistline. He has a wedding to look good for after all. The idea makes him smile.

 

Mrs. Hudson is in full flight, hands dancing in the air, eyes bright. “Of course, you’ll need a cake. I wonder if two layers would be enough or maybe three? I could do different flavours for the layers. Or would you prefer a traditional fruit cake?” She scowls momentarily at John, trying to recall what type of cake they had eaten at his wedding to Mary. Fruit, she decided. Right then, lemon sponge and chocolate ganache layers it was for her Sherlock.

 

“Oh and flowers, and you’ll need a colour scheme and then there will be bridesmai…” She pulls up short, frowning, “If you have no bride, do you have bridesmaids? Groomsmaids? Never mind. Venue, seating plans – oh there is so much to do!”

 

She leaps from her seat fussing about the kitchen, re-folding a tea towel and producing a jar of rhubarb and apple jam for the table. Sherlock opens it, sniffs and dips in two long fingers, licking them clean with noisy enthusiasm. It brings Mrs. Hudson back to her senses, slapping him on the back of the hand, extracting the jar and returning it back to the fridge before slumping into her own plastic seat.

 

Sherlock had told John to expect this. They had agreed she should be given the chance to at least consider all her fantasies before they gently disavowed her of her wilder notions. They had not yet discussed what type of wedding they would have and John, for one, was a little grateful to have Mrs. Hudson as a devil’s advocate or, more likely, peacekeeper.

 

Sherlock reaches out and takes Martha’s hand. She looks at him and a tear appears at the corner of her eye. “I’m sorry, it’s just I never thought you would, I mean that you could have…” To John’s astonishment, Sherlock sweeps her into his arms and hugs her as she calms herself. He never has quite grasped the depth of feeling between Sherlock and his landlady. One day he really must demand the full story, although he suspects he himself might not come out of it in such a good light.

 

“I was hoping we might keep it a bit simpler than that ?” John directs at them both.

 

“Agreed. I do not wish it to become a circus. Would you consider eloping with me, John?”

 

This produces the desired swipe from Mrs. Hudson’s tea towel, “Your Mother and I would never forgive you.”

 

Sherlock chuckles “God forbid I should invoke your combined wrath. I would sooner face Moriarty once more. You are aware,” he adds gently, “that my brother may have to be included in some elements of planning. He appears rather ….  _ excited _ by the idea.” Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the unpleasant notion of Mycroft being excited.

 

Martha draws herself straight, sniffs and considers her words carefully, “Just keep him away from me.”

 

“Right. No elopement then, but something small? Unless, Sherlock you would prefer…?”

 

“Not at all. Small is ideal. My family, your family and maybe one or two friends. Molly, Lestrade, Stamford?”

 

John beams. This is exactly what he wants.

 

“Where?”

 

Sherlock considers this. Mycroft had piqued his interest with the suggestion of access to places not usually available for weddings. He pierces John with a stare, mentally visiting the places that they had been together. Tempting as it is, he rejects the idea of revisiting the places they have solved some of his favourite murders. A bit not good, as John would say.

 

Later that evening they are once again graced with Mycroft’s unannounced presence. He enquires after their health, sits on their sofa and drinks tea before Sherlock’s patience runs thin and demands to know what Mycroft is doing there.

 

“I was wondering if you had any ideas for your wedding. Any decisions made? You could, of course, engage the services of a wedding planner.” Mycroft removes a tiny piece of fluff from his immaculate trousers and fails to meet the eye of either of them.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes while John endeavours not to gape.

 

“Do you have someone you could recommend?” Sherlock sneers, “From your extensive wedding experience?”

 

Mycroft merely straightens his spine at the dig. He has his eye on the big prize. He turns his attention to John.

 

“Not wishing to be  _ indelicate _ but you have already seen how very good a Holmes can be at planning a wedding. May I suggest we meet again for tea tomorrow and I shall present you with a portfolio? Just some ideas for discussion, naturally.”

 

“Um thanks. Yes, that would be very …nice? Wouldn’t it Sherlock?”

 

“I am perfectly capable of organising my own wedding, thank you very much!” Sherlock storms off to his bedroom, dressing gown whipping at his ankles.

John rises to his feet. Bloody hell, competitive wedding planning. This could either be a disaster or magnificent. “Meet you here tomorrow at four? Oh and thanks, Mycroft.”

 

Mycroft beams at him, gathering his coat and umbrella. It’s extremely unsettling.

 

They spend the evening tapping at their laptops on their respective sides of the desk. A glance over Sherlock’s shoulder as John leaves tea next to him reveals fourteen open tabs and a colour-coded spreadsheet. Every now and again the tapping is interrupted by Sherlock throwing questions at John.

 

“Regents Park or the Zoo?”

 

“Neither.”

 

“Hmph. Navy Blue or Indigo?”

 

“Indigo.”

 

“Thai or Chinese?”

 

“Ummmm. Chinese. Or both? Maybe neither.” Sherlock scowls at his indecision.

 

John was undertaking some research himself. Or rather, he was pretending to. While everyone else was concerning themselves with the wedding, he was far more interested in the honeymoon. Two solid weeks of time alone with Sherlock. No Mrs. Hudson ‘you-hooing’ at inappropriate moments, no coming home from work half-hard after day-dreaming of his long-limbed detective at work only to find Lestrade sitting on the sofa.

 

The problem is, Sherlock is not that keen on holidays. Or leaving London for that matter. Some weeks he isn’t even that keen on leaving 221b so John is going to have to get creative. He has decided he was going to make this trip his wedding present to Sherlock – and himself. The first challenge is to ensure it’s a surprise. When you are the world’s only Consulting Detective, surprises are very few and far between but on the rare occasion Sherlock is taken by surprise, he was like an over excited child on his birthday. John considers it his job to delight Sherlock as often as he can. He takes a moment to dwell on the lovely idea of  _ taking _ Sherlock by surprise.

 

Part one of Operation Honeymoon is to leave a thorough browsing history on his laptop that will lead Sherlock down the wrong path entirely. He knows that Sherlock will have a good rummage through his laptop at the earliest opportunity and he is going to leave all sorts of red herrings. Which was why John Watson has spent the last two hours looking at websites for resorts in the Bahamas, sending enquiry emails to ski holiday specialists and filled out an enquiry form with Disney World in Florida. He also knows he will need an accomplice. Someone with secure internet access. Someone who owes him at least a thousand favours. Someone who can be persuaded with a couple of pints.

 

So he was happy to let Sherlock, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson engage in Wedding Wars, it would keep them all out of his way.

The pub is quiet when John meets Greg the following lunchtime. He has done a stint in the clinic and had clearance from Sherlock to tell both Sarah and Greg their news. Greg wraps John in a bear hug then quickly extracts himself to buy the first round. John outlines Operation Honeymoon and Greg alternates from scepticism at John’s ability to keep secrets from Sherlock to concern about them getting caught misusing the Met’s resources in such a way. John reminds him of all the resources Sherlock and John have saved NSY over the years and Greg calms a bit.

 

“I have a plan, anyway. All I need is two hours access to the internet and maybe an hour on a secure phone line.”

 

“Alright, but make sure we keep it between ourselves, mate. I could get into proper trouble for this. Is there anything else I can do to help, with the wedding, like?”

 

John decides to get a second pint in before filling Greg in on the Great Holmes Wedding War.

John realises things are getting slightly out of hand when he arrives home at 3.55 p.m. to find that Sherlock has rigged up a projector to his laptop and had prepared a PowerPoint presentation, complete with handouts. The wall above the couch is covered in sheets of blank paper to act as a screen. When Mycroft arrives, promptly at four, he gives a small sigh and carefully arranges himself into a dignified position in Sherlock’s own chair.

 

Sherlock proceeds to outline his choice of venue, the Ginger Martini bar in Gargamesh, Camden. A high-concept restaurant at the top of a tower, all black leather and concrete with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city, he has drawn up a menu of eastern fusion food and cocktails. There is even a seating plan. Once finished, he sits down with a flourish.

 

Mycroft then passes around his own offerings. He has identified a club in St. James’s Square for Army and Navy personnel. It is called ‘The In and Out Club’. John stares at him, not sure if this is the man’s idea of a joke or whether John should punch him. A glance at Sherlock soon clarifies that Mycroft had no idea of the inappropriateness. They decline.

 

His second suggestion is one that has required Mycroft to draw on his extensive contacts.

 

“The Kensington Rooftop Garden.”

 

“Right, where in Kensington is that, then?”

 

“At the Palace, John.”

 

John stares, first at Mycroft, then at Sherlock and finally at the wall. He decides to make tea to give his poor brain a chance to process this idea. 

 

After handing around the mugs, he sits in his own chair facing Sherlock.

 

“Is this really what you want, love? A fancy restaurant or, bloody hell, a Palace? Or is this just you two trying to outdo each other as usual? If it is what you want, I will go along with it, but I must admit I would prefer something a bit simpler. Maybe a bit more personal?”

 

Sherlock watches him for a long moment. “As far as I am concerned, we could get married downstairs by the bins, as long as you are there, John.”

 

“I have a couple of ideas. See if you can deduce them?”

 

Sherlock studies John for a moment until a slow smile spreads across his face.

 

“Oh, John you are such a romantic. That’s perfect.”


	5. My love for you is wrapped into the DNA of my cells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hugs and gratitude to my beta Breath4Soul who is the Queen of Commas and Semi-colons (TM)

Sherlock awakes in a strange bed with light pouring in through an uncurtained window on his right and for a second is disconcerted not to know where he is. Then the realisation washes over him that he is downstairs in 221a. He shifts to his back in the narrow guest bed and listens to Martha in the kitchen, the radio playing and her off-key falsetto joining in on the chorus; “All you need is love, ta da da da, all you need is love, love. Love is all you need.”

John had originally been opposed to the idea of them spending the night before the wedding in different places. He wanted Sherlock close to him. He always needed Sherlock close to him these days, as if afraid that one or the other of them would disappear into a puff of smoke without the other there to anchor them to this life. Sherlock understood that; he felt the same way sometimes. Occasionally, he still wondered if he was really still locked up in a cell in Serbia; isolated, in pain and that this was all the creation of his insane mind, just a coping mechanism, too perfect to be real.

“We should arrive separately and leave together. Is that not the tradition?” Sherlock had questioned. It was the closest thing Sherlock got to romance so John had begrudgingly capitulated.

Lifting his head and resting it on his bent elbow, from this angle he could see his navy suit and white shirt hanging from the curtain rail. It was the only place in the room high enough to hang Sherlock’s long trousers without crumpling on the floor.

A small knock of the door and Mrs. Hudson peeks around the corner, a cup of tea proceeding her as a peace offering.

“Good morning, dear. Oh Sherlock, can you believe it! It’s finally here. I still can’t quite believe it. It only seems like yesterday that I met you in that strip club, undercover in your fishnets and spangles. You were so young. Still..”

She fusses around the room, opening the curtains and fluffing cushions that don’t need fluffing. Sherlock knows she is building up to something.

“I just wanted to say, it’s going to be too busy later and I just wanted to say –“

Sherlock is getting bored waiting for her to get to the point,  “Oh do spit it out woman!”

Shocked by his abruptness, her hands flutter to her face and she studies him. She changes her mind about whatever she was going to say and heads off to make breakfast, glancing anxiously back at him as she rushes out of the room.

Sherlock instantly regrets his unkindness and considers going to apologise. He should be in a good mood this morning, surely, rather than his usually short-tempered self. Maybe it's just the absence of John that is bothering him.

He rises, heading for the bathroom to shower and shave, the smell of bacon and coffee filling the tiny flat. Sherlock carefully pushes down the tiny voice suggesting that things are happening too fast, that they are not really ready for this yet. That John is not ready for this. He pushes the idea away, chastising himself. How many years has he waited for this? For John to be his and his alone? Why waste valuable energy on questioning something that is so obviously right? Really, there is no pleasing him.

* * *

 

Upstairs in 221b John is alone. He has showered and shaved and now stands in their bedroom looking at his reflection and smiles. He remembers doing the very same thing on the morning of his wedding to Mary. That day he had been filled with doubts; had wanted to shout ‘stop, it’s all going too fast, everything has changed, I just need to stop and think’. He doesn’t regret going through with it, though, it’s just that this morning is so different.

This morning he is bursting with excitement. He misses Sherlock terribly; it’s an ache in his chest and an itch in his fingers. He had started the day by treating himself to a languid wank just thinking of Sherlock and all the things he intended to do to his boy tonight. John had decided it was a medically advisable procedure as he was sure he would have the horn all day just looking at Sherlock in his tightly-tailored new suit.

He slips on his shoes, shined with military conviction, and reaches for his dress uniform jacket. The buttons have had to be moved out slightly; he has filled out a bit in the years since discharge and, of course, he had to have the hidden pocket added. The jacket makes him stand just that bit straighter and taller, the scarlet giving his skin a glow. Adding the belt and hat, he gives his reflection a salute, just to make sure he can still do it right.

Sherlock had practically drooled when John had mentioned that he could wear his dress uniform to get married in. Mary had said it was too over the top; Sherlock had gone into a bit of a trance for a few minutes as he considered the idea before declaring it ‘very acceptable’. John grins as he thinks of one of the treats he has organised for Sherlock for their honeymoon.

He hears a car pull up outside and resists the urge to rush to the window to watch Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson leave. Instead, John makes himself wait until the venue to see him. Only a few moments later he hears the soft hum of the expensive car taking off again. He only has another couple of minutes before his own car arrives. John pins his medal ribbon to his left pectoral, picks up her photo and heads to the living room.

As always now, on the mantlepiece sits the small, lacquered wooden box; the lid inlaid with an intricate pattern of darker wood, branches, leaves and tiny flowers intertwined. The box is, at most, five centimetres square and four deep. John gently traces the pattern with his left index finger. She should be here. His baby should be here today. Tears suddenly burn in his eyes. He had lain in bed with Sherlock as they discussed what she would have looked like and what she would have worn for their wedding. John had even gone online and looked at shoes; tiny sparkly creations with butterflies. He would have held her small hand tightly as they walked up to meet Sherlock together.

The special pocket had been Sherlock’s idea, carefully designed by a talented tailor, inserted just above John’s hip at the back right hand side, partly concealed by the tailoring over John’s arse. It is no-one’s business but theirs that John brings her all sorts of places. There was no conceivable way he could leave her behind, alone, on this day.

John picks up the small box, kisses it gently and eases it carefully into the pocket. He just has time to pull the dress uniform straight when a beep comes from outside. Sitting at the kerb is a fully renovated 1942 Willys Jeep. Mycroft is sitting in the driver’s seat, sporting a pair of military style sunglasses and raising an eyebrow at John.

“Do you like it? I had to get permission from very high up to use it.”

“How high up?”

“The highest in the land. It’s part of her personal collection; she used to drive one with the WRAF during the War. I have to get it back by five p.m.”

“I love it. Thank you.”

John hauls himself into the front seat and Mycroft accelerates away at top speed.

* * *

The sleek, black limousine with tinted window glides to a silent stop outside the Roland Kerr College of Further Education. Mrs. Hudson raises an eyebrow at Sherlock who ignores it. The debate over the venue had raged far and wide between Mrs. Hudson, Mummy and Mycroft, all of whom had been astounded by their choice when London offered such a plethora of heart-stoppingly beautiful venues. Mycroft’s main objection was the fact that the College’s library, the location John and Sherlock had insisted on, wasn’t actually registered as a wedding venue. He had sniffed his displeasure at Sherlock, then pushed through the necessary paperwork.

Sherlock watches as Martha makes a decision and takes a deep breath. She says what she had tried to say earlier:-

“Sherlock, you don’t have to go through with this. Not if you don’t want. You’re still a young man and there are plenty of others out there. It’s just, I can’t forget, Sherlock,” she turns and looks him straight in his surprised face. “I haven’t forgotten what he did to you, nor should you. Someone has to say it; he married someone else and then forgave her when she shot and nearly killed you. He’s just not good enough for you.”

Sherlock is silent and very still for a moment as he studies Mrs. Hudson’s concerned face. He leans forward, taps the limo driver on the shoulder and quietly tells him to drive on.

 

On the second floor of the College a small group of people gathers around John; giving hugs and congratulations. Mycroft is mid-conversation with his father when the voice in his ear brings him up short. Glancing at John, he excuses himself and steps into the small anteroom he has been using as his base. The British Government doesn’t even take a day off for his brother’s wedding.

Acknowledging the driver’s report, Mycroft gazes out of the small window. He considers all his baby brother has been through. Mycroft had believed that Sherlock and John had been able to find a way through all the lies and betrayals. Maybe he had been wrong. He will give it another five minutes before deciding what to say to John. He returns to the small group. A practised blank expression on his face, he schools himself not to react when John frowns at his watch and turns anxiously to the entrance.

Inside the car, as it loops around the one way system again, Sherlock is silent. He fixes Mrs. Hudson with a stare. Then a small smile creeps over his face as he leans over and pulls her into a tight hug.

“You are the only one brave enough to say such a thing to me. They all underestimate you; John, Moriarty, Mycroft. Especially Mycroft. You are right of course, he doesn’t deserve me. The thing is, Martha, I deserve him. It’s John or no-one for me, I’m afraid. I’ve forgiven him and he’s paid a high price for his choices, don’t you think?”

“Well, if you’re sure, dear?”

“I am quite sure. Have you ever known me to doubt my own mind? Now, Martha, unhand me, we have a wedding to go to.”

Mrs. Hudson sniffs “I was very contained the last time, on account of how you lied to us all and told us you were dead and everything but, if he ever hurts you again, he’ll have me to answer to.”

Sherlock smiles fondly at his landlady, leaning over to kiss her cheek gently. Rather John than him.

Once more at the college front door, Sherlock moves around to help Mrs. Hudson out of the car and offers his arm, a gentle smile passing between them. Mrs. Hudson is radiant in a pale yellow dress, shoes and matching jacket. She personally feels the matching fascinator was a bit too much but Mrs. Turner had insisted it finished off the outfit.

Arriving on the second floor, everyone turns to them as they make their entrance. Molly beams at Sherlock, wrapping him in a tight hug. As soon as she lets go, Lestrade moves in to do the same. Sherlock blinks rapidly, processing the unexpected touch and accompanying emotion. Extricating himself, he finds Mummy waiting patiently for his attention. Knowing better than to hug him, she satisfies herself by fixing his already straight silvery-grey, silk tie; smoothing his creaseless navy-blue suit jacket and beckoning him down until she can press a kiss to his cheek. Daddy grins at him and they shake hands.

Mycroft is not his usual implacable self; he now flutters around the group handing out cream rose buttonholes. Coming to a stop in front of Sherlock, they share a silent conversation in which Sherlock derides Mycroft’s flapability and Mycroft passes comment on the quality of the shine of Sherlock’s Italian black shoes. Mycroft ends the debate by offering Sherlock his hand. Sherlock takes it, pauses to make an assessment, then expresses all his love and appreciation for his brother by pulling Mycroft into a brief and awkward hug.

Shaking off his discomfort, Mycroft chivies the crowd.

“The registrar has arrived, can you please all make your way into the library and take your seats. No, Mummy, we have been through this, Sherlock does _not_ need to be escorted up the aisle. Molly, this is for you,” Mycroft hands Molly a laminated sheet of paper. “Sherlock, John you can step in here. Harriet, if you would be so kind, may I have a brief word?”

John’s family are represented by Harry alone. It has been agreed that there will be no ‘sides’ to the layout of the library but that the small group will all sit together at the front. Mrs. Hudson takes her place between Mummy Holmes and Greg Lestrade and is surprised when Mummy takes her hand and gives it a small squeeze. Originally anticipating a small power struggle over wedding plans, Martha is delighted to have, instead, made a new friend. The two women have met a number of times over tea to discuss their outfits and other arrangements. They are even going to see ‘Wicked!” in the West End in a couple of weeks. She squeezes the hand back.

Slipping in the door, Mycroft takes his seat at the small piano he has arranged for the venue and scans the room critically. Despite his reservations, he can see why the room suits the occasion so perfectly. He alone understands what happened in this building and what exactly Sherlock means by his statement ‘We arrived here separately and left together’. More to the point the room is deeply masculine, all glowing cherry wood, soft lighting and, of course, books. They have created a dais at the top of the room where the marriage vows will be exchanged, wall to ceiling books forming a backdrop. He checks the minimalist cream and green flower arrangements and settles his hands in his lap, ready for his cue.

Alone together outside in the hallway, John suddenly feels ridiculously shy.

“Hello”, he grins, eyes scanning Sherlock, eye-wateringly handsome in his suit.

“Hello,” Sherlock dips in for a gentle kiss. His hand smooths John’s back and rests on his shoulder just above John’s medal ribbons.

“Everything okay?”

“It is now.”

 

Moments later, Harry pops her head through the door and gives Mycroft a sharp nod before hurrying to take her seat at the front next to Molly, who gives her a warm smile. The notes of [The Butterfly Waltz](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xqCdKOdX5FQ) floats into the room.

Everyone stands,the double doors open to reveal a grinning John, resplendent in his dress uniform and a more sober looking Sherlock, elegant in his dark navy suit. They are holding hands and make their way together towards the front of the room where the registrar awaits.

“Ladies and gentlemen. You are welcome here today to celebrate the marriage of John Hamish Watson and William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Please take your seats. Before we begin the ceremony, John and Sherlock will light a candle to remember loved ones who cannot be here with us for this special day.  The silent group watches carefully as John and Sherlock join hands and light a stout, plain, ivory candle resting in a black, cast iron holder just to the right of the dais. As the flame flickers and takes hold, John looks up into Sherlock’s face who smiles down at him and takes his hand.

“Now,” the registrar continues,”I believe Molly has a reading for us.”

Molly stands before the group, smiling shyly. “This is from Sherlock to John. He says he’s not good at explaining how he feels so this is to help. It’s written by Tommye Blout.”

_“lands on my pretty man’s forearm. Harmless,_

_it isn’t deadly at all; makes his muscle flutter_

_— the one that gets his hand to hold mine, or_

_ball into a fist, or handle a gun. It’s a ladybug,_

_or an Asian lady beetle everyone mistakes_

_for a ladybug — eating whatever_

_it lands on. My pretty man is asleep — at ease, or_

_plotting like the bug. Or maybe the bug_

_is a blowfly — eating my pretty man’s tan_

_from his pretty arm. My man swats it_

_without waking, as if he’s dreaming of an enemy,_

_or me. When my pretty man isn’t asleep_

_he’s got a temper._

_No, he is not asleep. He’s wide awake and wants me to tell you_

_I’m wrong. Blowflies don’t eat skin,_

_they lay eggs on skin. He knows all about_

_blowfly larvae. Napoleon used them_

_to clean war wounds, my cold pretty man_

_says in that pretty way,_

_with his cold pretty mouth. He’s eaten plenty_

_of bugs before. On night watch,_

_over there. Over there, they’re everywhere.”_

 

Mrs. Hudson sniffs and reaches for the tissues in her bag. Maybe she was being too hard on John.

“Now it is time for you to exchange your vows. I understand you have each prepared something you would like to say? John, would you go first please?”

John nods sharply and raises his chin, gazing into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Sherlock, these are pre-prepared words. I have chosen these words with care. I love you, but then you already know that. I have loved you from the very moment you winked at me in Barts. You have saved me, body and soul, from insane, murderous masterminds, countless criminals and a professional assassin. Most of all, you have saved me from myself, from my most destructive thoughts and impulses over and over again. You have given me my life and, in front of all those we love, I pledge to give you my life from now to the end of the universe. You are my life and in return I give you mine.”

Silence lays across the room as everyone contemplates the sacrifices and loss both men have endured since they met.

“Now, Sherlock.”

“John, I am an extraordinary man.” Laughter ripples across the room. Sherlock smiles too, just for John. “At least, that is what you always tell me. You tell me I am a genius; brilliant, astounding, beautiful. These things will never cease to surprise me. I am only these things in your eyes and only because you have made me that way. You have given me a reason to be the best that I can be, to push my genius, to leave behind my self-destructive ways and become a better man. My love for you is wrapped into the DNA of every one of my cells. When I die, it will become part of the atoms of the universe and exist forever, nothing will ever be able to destroy it. We have already proven that.”

“Now, if you could please all stand, John and Sherlock will exchange their vows. Who has the rings?”

A beaming Mike Stamford steps forward and hands each groom their identical titanium wedding rings.

“I, John Hamish Watson, do take you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, to be my husband; to honour and cherish from this day forth.”

“I, Sherlock Holmes, do take you John Hamish Watson, to be my husband; to protect and treasure from this day forth.”

“I now declare John and Sherlock to be husband and husband,” beams the registrar.

Sherlock casts all his usual reserve to one side. He is overwhelmed by the moment. Tears fill his eyes as he wraps John in his arms and kisses him so tenderly that John is undone. Burying his head in Sherlock’s shoulder he sobs, “I love you,” and as they always have done, they cling to one another, ignoring the applause and cheers from the rest of the room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you like a Johnlock wedding? This is the third time I have married them off. You can read a sexier version in Chapter 3 of [Blood Rising](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7537561/chapters/17182498) or a fluffy version in [A Waltz for John and Sherlock](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7537561/chapters/17182498)
> 
> The unusual punctuation in the poem I quote is all the work of Tommye Blout.


	6. Curled Tight

Sherlock sits back into his chair, lemon drizzle cake crumbs cascading down his shirt unseen as he reaches again for his champagne glass. He analyses John’s profile next to him as his husband animatedly finishes the story he is telling Lestrade across the table. Sherlock watches the creases at John’s eyes as he laughs, observes the minute changes in his skin tone, the way his hair falls around his ears, the length of his eyelashes, the jutting of John’s bottom lip as his mouth comes to rest. Sherlock has been obsessively cataloguing these details for so long now, it happens automatically, each stored with a date stamp in his Mind Palace. 

Slowly, Sherlock becomes aware that while he is watching John, others are watching him. Scanning the table, he realises that Mummy, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson are all staring at him indulgently. At that precise moment, a switch flicks inside Sherlock’s enormous brain. He doesn’t need to constantly update his Mind Palace John. He no longer needs to catalogue and save every tiny detail so he can access them when John is not there, when John is finally gone.

John is staying. John is his. Sherlock won.

The sensation washing over him is utterly overwhelming. He is sinking and flying both at the same time. The chatter of their guests suddenly rings loudly in his ears. The smell of the leftover pasta and steaks on the table, the cake crumbs on his lap, reek and sting his nose. Angelo’s is oppressively stuffy and the coloured fairy lights reflecting back in from the darkened windows are too bright. Sherlock freezes. 

Instinctively, he does what he always does when he is overwhelmed, senses screaming. He reaches for John, lays a hand on the very top of John’s thigh and squeezes, the fabric making his hand sore but feeling the reassuring solidity of John’s muscle, the warmth and slight shifting of tendons as John turns to look at him.

“Sherlock. Sherlock love, look at me.” John’s voice is low and calming, “It’s getting late. Maybe it’s time we called it a day?”

Sherlock meets John’s eyes, sees the calm and hint of a smile in them. He wants all these people to be gone, instantly and for there to be no-one, and nothing, except him and John.

“Take me home, John. Take me to bed.” Sherlock’s voice is hushed, low and demanding.

John flushes, not breaking eye contact. He swallows and gives a tiny nod. This was not how he had expected the evening to go. John and Sherlock’s sex life was an ongoing negotiation between John’s needs and Sherlock’s comparatively low libido. It was very unusual for Sherlock to initiate any sexual activity; cuddling, kissing, hand holding, yes - there was no shortage of physical affection between them - but this hungry, demanding Sherlock? This is new. 

John lays his hand over Sherlock’s and stays holding it as he gets to his feet.

“Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of my husband and I,” a ripple of applause interrupts him and he grins at everyone, “I would like to say thank you. Thank you for coming; to Angelo for closing his restaurant just for us, for the delicious food and the champagne.” He nods to Angelo sat at the end of the table, persuaded just this once to eat with them.

“To Mrs. Hudson for her miracle of a wedding cake, thank you. He raises his glass in a toast as Martha blushes at the round of applause.

“Thank you to My- to my brother-in-law, for all his help in organising today. Mycroft you made it very special. Please all stay and enjoy yourselves, but it’s been a long day and Sherlock and I,” he squeezes Sherlock’s hand, “are off home.”

Ignoring the calls from around the table to stay, John stands, pulling Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock has already put on his own jacket and helps ease John into his uniform, gently smoothing the line across the back of the shoulders. Without a backward glance at their guests, they unlock the door and step out into the cool, late spring evening.

Sherlock is just raising his hand to hail a taxi when a black car glides out of the laneway opposite them and comes to a stop. John is even more grateful to Mycroft and wonders how long the poor driver has been sat waiting for them to leave. This thought is wiped from his mind as Sherlock pushes him forcefully into the corner of the seat the second John closes the car door. Sherlock holds his long fingers to John’s face, and pulls him into a deep, slow, sensuous kiss that lasts until they reach 221b. 

As Sherlock opens the front door, John starts to giggle.

“Should one of us carry the other over the threshold?” The only response he gets is being dragged into the hallway as Sherlock rolls his eyes at him before making their way upstairs.

John loves that they are back in their own home tonight. During the week, Mycroft had presented them with a booking for a very upmarket hotel for the night, his wedding gift. A quick discussion had led Sherlock to pop down to Mrs. Hudson and give the reservation to her instead. All agreed it was a much more suitable arrangement. 

Sherlock went to the bathroom and John moved immediately to his laptop. He had set it up that morning, a visceral memory from his first wedding needing to be eradicated and replaced.

The violin music floated from the portable speaker on their desk and filled the flat with music. When Sherlock reappeared, his nose creasing at the top in puzzlement, John offered his hand;

“Dance with me, love?”

They fall into a graceful waltz, carefully moving around the cluttered room. They gaze into each other’s eyes, individually remembering the times they had practiced this for John’s wedding to Mary. John remembers the waltz Sherlock had played for them and pulls Sherlock tight against his chest as he forces himself to remember watching him leave the wedding, alone, and how John had felt like he was screaming at him to stay, not to leave him. 

In their living room they dance their own waltz, barely moving now, leaning into each other, holding tightly. As the music comes to an end, John tilts his face up and gently kisses away a tear from Sherlock’s jaw then wipes them from his own face.

As John runs his hands up and down Sherlock’s back, the muscles relaxing, they sway gently. The kiss deepens, tongues lazily caressing as Sherlock drops his hands to hold John by the backside. Their eyes are closed and it takes John a monumental effort to speak.

“Let’s go to bed.”

Arms around waists, they head to the bedroom where John begins to gently undress Sherlock, draping the suit jacket over the back of a chair before slowly undoing each button of his shirt. Sherlock stands, unresisting, hands resting on John’s hips.

“You are stunning in that suit. I could have dragged you into the nearest cleaning cupboard when I first saw you.” John’s hands stroke over the warm planes of Sherlock’s chest and trace his collarbones before moving down to undo his trousers. “I was watching your arse in these every time you turned round. Did you have them tailored for just the perfect amount of tension?” 

“Yours or mine? Still not a patch on that uniform. We need to find you more excuses to wear it.” Sherlock breathes into John’s ear, dipping his head for a languid lick along at the point where John’s jaw meets his ear.

In response, John slides his hands inside the back of Sherlock’s trousers. He pauses for a second.“Hnnnng! You aren’t wearing any underwear!”

“And spoil the line of these trousers? Certainly not. It would appear you did notice.”

John’s stomach makes a slide down and he has to lean against Sherlock for a moment to steady himself. He grasps a full buttock in each hand, just holding them, feeling the muscles under his hands shift fractionally as Sherlock keeps them both standing. John realises they are swaying slightly.

“Tired, love?” He asks sleepily, head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Hmmm.Too much food. Lot of champagne. Cake.” 

“‘Kay. I need the loo. Get those off you.”

The sight that greets his eyes on his return makes his heart leap and his cock jump. Sherlock is completely naked, laid out face down on their bed like a starfish, his right leg dangling slightly off the edge. All the sheets and blankets are shoved to the end of the bed.

John rapidly strips his clothes. He had planned to leave his uniform jacket on but decides that maybe they should leave that for another time. Before hanging it up, he removes the wooden box from its pocket and pads into the living room, carefully leaving it on the mantelpiece, making sure it is precisely squared up.

Sherlock hasn’t moved while he has been gone and John kneels over him, thighs straddling Sherlock’s and brushes his balls slowly over Sherlock’s arse, eliciting a groan. Lowering his weight down gently, he wraps his arms under Sherlock and lays his head between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, waiting for their breathing to align.

“I love you. You do know that don’t you?”

“Mmmm. I do. Love you too.” Sherlock rumbles and John hears it as much from the vibrations through his chest cavity and back as with his ears.

With impressive effort, John rolls them over so they are lying on their sides, chest to back and reaches down to pull the sheets up to cover their legs. Sherlock reaches a hand back and pulls John’s arse forward so he can feel John’s hard cock press up into the cleft of his buttocks. John kisses and licks the back of Sherlock’s neck, strokes his chest, fingers trailing over the lean musculature of his abdomen. Eyes closed, he inhales the sharp smell of Sherlock's skin over laid with the very faint reminder of aftershave. 

Lazily, he drops his hand to stroke Sherlock’s balls with just the tips of his fingers. Sherlock is rhythmically rocking his arse backwards, pressing into the heat of John’s cock and the softness of his thighs. John wraps his hand around Sherlock’s cock and languidly strokes, immersed in the silkiness of the skin, and the quiet whines from Sherlock’s throat.

Sleepily, John struggles to keep his hand moving as Sherlock's bottom gradually stops undulating and their breathing deepens. They fall asleep curled tight into one another, John’s hand holding Sherlock loosely, his own cock nestled into the curve of Sherlock’s arse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the lovely Breath4Life for her excellent beta work.


	7. Wedding Presents

The dream is nothing more than a series of colours and shapes: a sense of heaviness in his arms, then the floating morphs into a tautness in every muscle. John wakes suddenly, the dream evaporating. He is flat on his back, the grip of guilt hitting him, the familiar pain and loss sitting in his stomach. His mind reaches for its cause until he begins to remember and automatically brings the riveted, steel shutters crashing down, hiding away the unwanted images.

Turning over onto his side to relieve the knot of tension in his stomach, John opens his eyes to look at Sherlock. His husband. A new pang of guilt creeps up on him as John admires Sherlock’s dark lashes lying on pale cheeks. He should be happy now; having this should be enough, should at the least, ease the loss. After all, wasn’t this everything he had ever wanted?

Snugging closer to the warmth and softness of Sherlock, John considers the previous night. Things hadn’t gone exactly as he had planned but that is OK. Their sex life often doesn’t go as John, or indeed either of them, plans. The last two years have been a time of discovery for both of them. The very same gifts, the hyper awareness and intelligence that make Sherlock the world’s only Consulting Detective, his genius, do not switch off or go away when they are in bed. They have learnt each other with patience, and sometimes great care must be taken.

Leaning in slowly, John kisses Sherlock, his hand wandering under the sheet to a bicep, down to the length of Sherlock’s forearm where he strokes a fingertip firmly along the sinews and muscles. God, how he loves Sherlock’s forearms; the scattering of hair, the strength of those muscles offset by the slender delicacy of the wrist. He grips the wrist firmly, using exactly the right amount of pressure; not quite enough to hurt but sufficient for Sherlock to feel safe.

The touch rouses his sleeping husband, eyes opening to meet John’s, reaching in for a kiss and stretching himself at the same time. John is surprised and a little wary when Sherlock pushes forward and slowly, deliberately, grinds his erection into John’s.

Sherlock places his palms on John’s pectoral muscles, pressing firmly, enjoying the feeling of the nipples in the centre of his palms. This is one of his favourite things to do;  reinforcing John’s strength, the quiet power of his musculature. John’s fingers remain wrapped around his left wrist as they shuffle tight together, thigh to thigh, knee to knee, cock to cock.

Neither man says a word, although John raises an enquiring eyebrow at Sherlock’s second demonstration of lust in 12 hours. Talking and touching at the same time do not work for Sherlock, as they had found out very early on. He loves the sound of John’s voice but only when spread out in isolation, eyes closed and able to focus on the words. Talking and touching simultaneously is overwhelming, make his brain take flight and panic rise in his chest.

Sherlock knows exactly what he wants this morning, he had thought about it yesterday as he watched John move in his dress uniform; all strength and confidence. He leans in and kisses John, hard and deliberate, the way John has taught him. The response is immediately rough and demanding. It’s pleasing.

John reaches behind and clasps Sherlock’s arse, kneading and pulling him even closer. Sherlock arches his back in delight at the firmness, a silent cry in his throat, as John reaches up to bite and nip at his neck. A word plays on a loop in Sherlock's head; yours, yours, yours.

Hands gripping John’s shoulders and back, Sherlock spreads his legs in libidinous invitation. John knows this, understands the invitation, and shifts up so that he can slot the broadest part of his right thigh between Sherlock’s legs, pressing in hard so they are wrapped around one another, barely leaving enough room to breathe.

Sherlock squeezes his own thighs around John’s and begins to slowly rub his cock and balls up and down the strong quadricep muscle, enthralled by the slight shifting of muscle between his legs. John is taller than him in this position, head curled over his, one hand pulling firmly on his curls and the other now grasping Sherlock’s bicep.

Sherlock wraps his hands behind John and balls them into fists. It had taken them a while to realise that Sherlock’s finger tips are so sensitive that anything they touch overwhelms the sensations from other parts of the body. John struggled with this fist making initially but was won over when Sherlock spent hours tracing patterns over his body with just his fingertips.

The pace of rocking increases, John simply holding his thigh firmly in place allowing Sherlock to control all the movement. Occasionally, John flexes his quad, sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine as he revels in the heat, the coarseness of the hairs and the pleasure he gets from having his own thighs held wide. Sherlock feels the grip of his orgasm start to build, deep down near his balls, that pulse broadening and spreading. His rutting becomes hard and animalistic, the sweat gathering on his belly making his cock slide as he presses his abdomen as close to John’s as he can get.

Sherlock’s orgasm hits him hard; yesterday’s longing and unsatisfied, late-night erection all coalescing in the tip of his cock as he comes and comes, arching up and back into John’s strong arms that hold him tight as it washes over him.

Moments later;  breathing hard, sweating, buttocks cramping, he floats back setting inside himself and is met with John’s grinning face. John pulls away, staying close but not touching.

“Jesus Sherlock, that was fucking gorgeous. If I’d known marriage would do this, I’d have proposed a lot sooner. Are you OK, love?”

Sherlock understands that what John is really asking is whether its alright to touch him now. At the beginning of their relationship, Sherlock had often come quickly and then become so over sensitised that he could not bear to touch John with his hands. Patience had sometimes tipped over into frustration and there had been a couple of rows, accusations of selfishness and apologies. They had persevered though and, to both their delight, discovered that while his hands were too sensitive, other places, most especially his mouth, were not. Sherlock has developed a serious fixation with taking John, hard and leaking, into his mouth and keeping him there for as long as possible. John considers this to be a more than acceptable resolution.

Sherlock nods and opens his arms wide, John rolling over on top of him, laying his full weight on him and grounding Sherlock. Without verbal communication, they have developed their own code for expressing their desires. John now dip his tongue firmly in and out of Sherlock’s ear and is rewarded by a vehement nod and an opening of Sherlock’s legs.

John reaches over to his side of the bed and roots through his bedside locker for the lube, rapidly coating his hand. He dips one finger down and massages Sherlock’s perineum before slipping inside him then quickly introducing a second finger. Already relaxed from coming, it doesn’t take John long to open Sherlock up. He smiles at Sherlock, a questioning eyebrow raised. Sherlock, eyes half-lidded, nods back.

John gazes down at the supplicated Sherlock beneath him. Sometimes he wants this man so badly it shocks him. The powerful need to claim him, mark him and have him for his own is so strong it can overwhelm him. John has never felt this way before and struggles with it, afraid that someday it might take him over and he will lose control. He squeezes the lube into his palm, slicks up his cock and pushes Sherlock’s legs even further apart

A moment later he is slowly pushing into Sherlock, the heat and tightness surrounding him an immense relief to his aching cock and balls. He holds Sherlock hard by the hips, fingers digging in and pulling Sherlock onto him, thrusting hard. Sherlock lifts his hips, pushing back onto John, his head twisting left and right, eyes screwed tight, mouth open, curls falling over his eyes. John ploughs into him, hard and deep, his own orgasm building fast. He has his own eyes wide open as he takes in every detail of his beautiful husband;  flushed, muscles flexing under his skin, hands pushed up to the headboard.

“Mine, mine, mine,” John mouths silently as he comes.

* * *

 

An hour later, John and Sherlock are roused from sleep by the doorbell ringing. Exchanging sleepy looks, they agree to ignore it by the simple expedient of both closing their eyes again. When the doorbell rings a second time, held down for a continuous thirty seconds, John grumpily dons his dressing gown and stomps down the stairs.

At the door stands a young man, clearly one of Mycroft’s minions from the ubiquitous black suit, holding out an enormous white cardboard box.

“Good morning Dr. Watson-Holmes. I’m sorry to disturb you. Mr. Holmes sends this with his regards.”

The smells wafting from the box suggest Mycroft has sent breakfast. Carrying it back upstairs, John realises one half is warm on his hand and the other cool. As he sets it down on the kitchen table, he shouts for Sherlock. Putting on the kettle, they open the box together only to find it filled with lots of smaller polystyrene and cardboard boxes. Not bothering to wait for Sherlock to start deducing, John systematically opens all the boxes left to right and practically swoons. Mycroft has sent every conceivable breakfast delight; warm french toast dusted with icing sugar, a fresh omelet fragrant with cheese, crisp bacon, waffles with a tiny portion of maple syrup on the side, a selection of miniature danish pastries, still warm, and a portion of fresh fruit salad. In the very last box are slices of both layers of their wedding cake.

“There’s enough here to feed us for a week,” John laughs, licking syrupy fingers. Sherlock pokes at the french toast before deciding it isn’t sweet enough. Instead, he takes a slice of Mrs. Hudson’s chocolate ganache wedding cake. John decides he must remember to tell her this; that presented with delicacies from an expensive french bakery, Sherlock chose her baking over it all.

Several cups of tea later and both slightly giggly from the sugar high, John decides it is time for him to give Sherlock his wedding present. He clears the rubbish from the kitchen table, showers and dresses and fetches the file.

“Sherlock, I have something for you.” He drops the plain manilla file in his husband’s lap. After all his planning, John is a bit nervous about how his gift will be received, but he has a made a plan and the time has come to see it through.

Sherlock picks up the file, “Ah, our honeymoon,” he deduces, without much enthusiasm.

“Open the folder, you gorgeous git.”

Sherlock removes three sheets of paper and lays them out front of him on the coffee table. The first is a printout showing two first-class bookings with Aer Lingus from Heathrow to Dublin Airport. The second is a printout of Ireland from Google maps, detailing a route going west from Dublin to Kilkenny and then further over to the west coast. It then snakes northward along the coastline before turning east and ending in County Antrim in Northern Ireland.  

The third sheet is a printout from TripAdvisor with accommodation matching each of the six locations highlighted on the map, plus pictures and descriptions of each place and their star rating from Bord Fáilte, the Irish Tourist Board.

John watches Sherlock’s face carefully as he selects each sheet and examines the details carefully. Placing the third one down, he tips up his head and beams at John.

“I thought we were going to Montserrat. I found the booking, the tickets, the hotel. It looked _awful._ ”

“Did I fool you? Really? Are you just pretending? Tell me the truth, Sherlock, did you really not know?”

“I really did not know. Yes, you did surprise me.” Sherlock rises to his feet and hugs John, burying his face in his hair. “Thank you.”

John smirks. “We are going to Ireland for ten days. I knew you wouldn’t want to go anywhere sunny and, frankly, I had no interest in lying on a beach either. We’re following something called The Wild Atlantic Way, it’s a bit off the usual beaten tourist track. I spent ages booking the accommodation. Some of it is very unusual.”

Sherlock has already memorised the accommodation list. He steps back, scanning John’s beaming face.

“Indeed; a castle tower, bubble pods and a yurt. Intriguing.” Sherlock pauses, weighing up his deductions and wondering if he should say something. John has surprised him but he knows there’s more. “Granted, neither of us would have enjoyed lying on a beach, but why did you choose Ireland?”

“I’ve always wanted to explore it. Only ever been there once and that was to Dublin and all cities are much the same. I always wanted to see the coast, it’s supposed to be beautiful.”

“And?”

John laughs. He is fairly convinced he has surprised Sherlock from all the questions, but yes, of course, his genius husband is right, there is more.

“Well, there’s a case and …”

“You got me a case?” Sherlock interrupts, “A case on our honeymoon?”

“I most certainly did, my love. Did you think I expected you to spend ten days looking at ruins, churches and going surfing?” John laughs at the idea of Sherlock on a surfboard. “And it’s a really good one. Actually, it’s a case within a case.”

John recovers the second file he had hidden upstairs in their old room. He had buried it deep in the pile of clean bed linen, secure in the knowledge that Sherlock had, and never would, change their sheets. Kettle on, he outlines the Case of the Ballytoohin Hoard with pages littered all over the kitchen table.

It is hours later, with John safely ensconced in front of the telly laughing at Graham Norton’s chat show, that Sherlock sneaks into their bedroom. He silently closes the door and goes to his own hiding place, a specially created waterproof box fixed beneath the outside window sill. He eases out his wedding gift for John and re-examines the paperwork. Smoothing out the creases, he stares out the window at the traffic moving below. Mycroft had helped him secure these documents but had declined to express an opinion on Sherlock’s choice, which only served to increase Sherlock’s anxiety over his decision. Sherlock changes his mind, carefully refolding the thick sheaf of papers, returning them once more to their hiding place.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sometimes encounter people who do not fully understand how the geo-political divisions of Ireland work. I am absolutely not going to be getting into the history or politics of Ireland here, but just want to make it clear that, at this point in time, Ireland is divided into two parts. The larger Republic of Ireland will be referred to as Ireland in this story. The smaller section, part of the United Kingdom, will be referred to by its official title of Northern Ireland. There is a border between these two states, although at the moment there is no border control. The only way to tell you have crossed the border into Northern Ireland really is the colour of the postboxes (they go from green to red), the colour of the road signs and that the distances between towns are listed in miles instead of kilometres. of course, only time will tell if this will remain the case post-Brexit.


	8. Trinity College, Dublin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honour of Ms. AtlinMerrick and Ms. Winklepicker, the role of Professor Eoin Fitzgerald in this chapter will be played by Domhnall Gleeson.
> 
> For those unfamiliar with Irish names, Eoin is pronounced 'Owen'

John felt faintly ridiculous drinking champagne on a flight that would last less than a hour, but it was the first time ever he had flown first class and he was determined to make the most of the experience. At some point, the airline had found out that they are on their honeymoon and offered them a free upgrade; Sherlock surprised John with his enthusiastic acceptance. Dinner was served as soon as they took off and now is being cleared. Sherlock even ate a little, although he passed on the wine.

Just as they begin the descent into Dublin airport, John texts Professor Eoin Fitzgerald to confirm their arrival. He had spoken to the Head of Forensic Anthropology and Archaeology at the University of Dublin twice from Lestrade’s office when he had first stumbled across the disappearance of the Ballytoohin Hoard, Professor Fitzgerald having written a number of papers on the subject. At  first John’s enquiries had been met first with surprise and later, distrust.

Eoin Fitzgerald had never heard of Sherlock Holmes, let alone Dr. Watson and he was somewhat unclear on why either man would be interested in a ninety year old mystery which was, in turn, related to a one thousand year old puzzle.

Before returning John’s first call, The Professor had undertaken some research of his own.  Having reviewed Sherlock’s website and spoken to a contact of his own in the Irish police force, the Gardaí, he had then returned John’s call with a range of questions, each one more complicated than the last. Two further phone conversations and Eoin Fitzgerald was satisfied they were genuine and knowledgeable and agreed to meet them and share his knowledge of the Hoard.

Sherlock spent the two days before their departure learning all he could about the case. He rapidly discovered that there was very little about it online which, apparently, was why John chose it as his case. He turned his attention instead to learning the Irish language.

“I thought it was called Gaelic.” John had commented yesterday, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder to peer at the laptop screen.

“In Ireland, it’s called Irish. Gaelic is a collection of dialects that includes Scots Gaelic and Manx as spoken on the Isle of Man. It is also… a bit tricky.”

John’s eyebrows flew up at this statement. This was Sherlock Holmes, who had mastered Hungarian in a weekend. Apparently, one challenge came in the fact that Irish, unlike most other European languages, was not rooted in Greek and Latin. As a result, familiar letters made completely different sounds to those Sherlock was accustomed to.

“Look, John, when ‘b’ and ‘h’ are together, they make the ‘v’ sound and ‘s’ with ‘e’ makes ‘sh’. It’s fascinating!”

The sounds he had produced while practising had been highly entertaining too. Throwing off his headphones, Sherlock had collapsed onto the sofa in disgust, declaring, “my mouth just won’t make some of those sounds properly.” His subsequent pout was a joy to behold.

“Doesn’t nearly everyone there speak English anyway?” John had cautiously pointed out.

“Yes, but we are staying in some Irish speaking parts and people are always more forthcoming when you speak to them in their own language. Also, it may be useful for the time period in which part of the case originated. Everyone spoke Irish then.”

On route from the airport, Dublin flashes past the cab windows as they traverse the redeveloped docklands area; all glass, gleaming steel and artisan coffee shops. They cross the River Liffey and the traffic slows. They meander into the old parts of Dublin, Georgian buildings renovated and converted into museums, art galleries and university teaching departments. The traffic is just as bad as in London but the buildings are shorter with more space between them.

Professor Fitzgerald’s office is on the second floor of the 19th century building that edges the Library Square, an unexpected open space, laid out with a formal lawn, large oaks and secluded seating in the middle of the city’s prime real estate. The pristine, white, two-story buildings radiate in all directions, the overall effect being one of having travelled back in time to a more genteel era. This is somewhat spoilt as they climb the stairs and look down on the tail end of the queue of tourists waiting patiently to view the Book of Kells in the college library, a mass of baseball caps, gaudy golf umbrellas and rowdy school children.

A young man is waiting for them at the top of the second floor stairs at the entrance to the Anthropology department.

“Welcome to Trinity, gentlemen, pleasure to meet you. Please, follow me.”

They follow him down the corridor and into a messy office.

“Please, take a seat. Will you have tea?”

“Thank you. Is this Professor Fitzgerald’s office or is he..”

John is cut off mid sentence “Oh, I’m sorry,  should have introduced myself. I’m Eoin Fitzgerald. I take it you are Dr. Watson - or is it Watson-Holmes now? And you must be Sherlock?  Congratulations on your marriage, by the way.”

John is taken aback by this impossibly young professor, who leans over his desk to shake hands.

Shoulder-length dark red hair falls over his face before Eoin pushes it back again. John had been expecting some fusty old man in his seventies, not this freckled, smooth-skinned man, taller even than Sherlock..

“Thank you. We are using Watson-Holmes, “ Sherlock answers, observing John’s surprise. He glances around the room, maps and notes pinned to the walls, desk piled high with papers, a book shelf in the corner overflowing with texts. A glass-topped cabinet sits against the wall opposite the fireplace, furthest away from the enormous paned window. “May I?” he asks, gesturing to to the cabinet and goes over to look before Fitzgerald even answers him.

Professor Fitzgerald makes a brief phone call to request tea and invites his guests to sit in the battered leather chairs on either side of the unlit fireplace, it’s mantlepiece overladen with glass and pottery objects, papers stuffed behind them, before pulling over his own desk chair. Sherlock briefly examines the eclectic contents of the cabinet; a sixteenth century clay pipe, a fifteenth century pewter beer mug, shards of human bones, a selection of coins and, in the centre of the display, a bronze torc.

As they take their seats and wait for the tea, Sherlock turns his focus on Eoin Fitzgerald. The deductions flow into his mind like water.

Currently he is the youngest professor in the university, although not the youngest ever. He was a child prodigy, entering his undergraduate studies at fifteen and becoming Professor three years ago at the age of 30. He is an active participant in his archaeology studies. His nails indicate that he regularly attends digs. Shoes and hands suggest that despite living in the city, he regularly returns home to the country. Helps with agricultural activities, most recently putting up fencing. Despite his thinness, he has a healthy appetite and -

“I have read up on you, Mr. Watson-Holmes. I am fascinated by your website. I know your modus operandi. Please, feel free to make your deductions out loud, I would love to hear them.”

John glances at Sherlock, flashing a warning eyebrow “Well, I was just observing that you ate well at lunch. Had roast beef with gravy and all the trimmings followed by apple pie and cream for dessert. Most likely eaten here in the college dining room. You did not eat alone. You were with a student, a young lady, although you are in a relationship. You find her attractive but have no intention of pursuing her. You were actively involved in the ‘Yes’ campaign in 2015 for gay marriage rights. You took part in the celebrations after the referendum was passed. You are in the middle of a three year study but have realised it will take at least five years. You have concerns your funding will not be extended.”

Eoin throws back his head and laughs in delight. “That was as much fun as I had hoped. I did find the undergraduate attractive but you are mistaken, I am considering pursuing her. Although, now I think about it, you may be right, she probably is a bit too young for me. Now it’s my turn.”

John gapes at Eoin, who is looking Sherlock up and down.

“Prodigal chemistry student who studied but never graduated from Oriel College, Cambridge. You are a poor eater, but substitute food with coffee and sneak cigarettes on the rare occasions you are not with your husband. You have had a substance abuse problem in the past but have been clean for at least two years. You feel the cold but hate the heat more. You have larger than average feet for a man your height and have difficulty shopping for shoes. You have a very sweet tooth and have at least two cavities that you are ignoring until the pain becomes insufferable as you hate going to the dentist. How did I do?”

“You got most of that from either mine or John’s blog. However, I will concede I hate the heat, as is apparent from the fact that we are honeymooning in Ireland. My handmade shoes are the result of difficulty finding comfortable shoes that fit. How do you know about the teeth?” Sherlock focuses in on the Professor’s green eyes.

“Our jobs are not so different. It’s just that the dead bodies I examine tend to be a lot older and there is a lot less of them. Mostly, its just bones and teeth. I am _very_ good with teeth. You have a faint swelling in your jaw that indicates a mild infection as the result of at least two cavities. You really should get that looked at.”

John laughs, but Sherlock and Eoin lock gazes for just a moment longer before Sherlock too smiles.

“None of which has anything to do with why we are here,” John intercedes, bored of the showboating.

“Indeed,” Eoin flashes a grin at John and slaps his hands together in glee, “The Ballytoohin Hoard!”

“My preliminary research would indicate very little except that you are the pre-eminent expert. John considers it worthy of my attention. He is rarely wrong. Please, Professor Fitzgerald, what can you tell me?”

“Ok, and please, call me Eoin. Well, my predecessor, Professor Aidan O’Neill, was head of archaeology here for 40 years. He was a great man, never stopped moving with the new technologies and techniques. He was the first to document the story.”

Eoin swings round on his chair and scrabbles through some papers on his desk. He hands Sherlock an A4 hard bound book.

“He first heard the story from a man he met on a dig in Co. Clare back in 1971. The story goes that in 1929 a Ballintoohin man by the name of James Murphy was turning turf in the bog.” Eoin frowns. “Sorry, do you know what I mean by bog? It’s a natural resource we have used in Ireland as an energy source for millennia. They are great swathes of compacted vegetation in bands across the country, the remnants of ancient forests. Every summer, people slice the top layer, cut it into log-type pieces, dry it and burn it in open fires. That’s what we call turf. The bog has a very low level of oxygen and, as a result, it acts as an amazing preservative. We have found whole human bodies, perfectly intact, over a thousand years old buried in the bog. So -”

They are interrupted by a knock on the door. Eoin bounds to his feet, opening the door. “Oh, tea. I’d almost forgotten. Thanks, Thomas.” He takes the tray of mismatched mugs from the young man.

“You remembered the biscuits, fair play.”

Laying the tray down, Eoin offers round the pre-milked tea, pausing only to add three sugars to his own. John is struck by the injustice that all the skinny blokes he knows seem to be the ones with the sweetest tooth. His theory is only confirmed as he watches both Eoin and Sherlock grab not one, but two, biscuits each. The biscuits themselves are new to John; a rectangular base, they have a line of jam down the middle with pink, fluffy bobbles in lines on either side. According to the packet, they are called Kimberleys. Sherlock clearly approves, as he shoves a whole one straight into his mouth.

“Where was I? Oh, yes, James Murphy and his bog. So, there was James, digging his turf in the patch of bog his family has owned for generations, and he digs up a cloth bag, tied at the top. It’s heavy and takes a bit of effort for him to free it completely from the ground. When he eventually does and opens it up to take a look, to his amazement inside are a number of large metal objects and at least a hundred coins. As far as James can tell, they are all made of gold. James is delighted; he’s a farmer with a large family and thinks this will make him rich.”

“Except he has to hand it over to the authorities?” John has been doing his own reading.

“Well, yes. That’s what the law of the time said. Hand it over and be financially compensated by the state. However, things were not that simple at the time. Ireland was still under British rule and James was damned if he was handing over what he believed were ancient Irish treasures to the British Government. Instead, he cleaned it and hid it. He told his wife and children and that was it; the hoard was not seen again for thirty years, not until after James had died.”

Eoin takes a slurp of his tea, clearly enjoying his story telling.  “By then, times had changed. Ireland was a republic and there was a resurgence in finding and protecting our treasures. In 1969, James’ eldest son, James Jnr,  brought the hoard to a local historian who cleaned it, photographed, dated and identified the items as a torc, two gold cups, a large ceremonial cloak pin and a bronze serving platter. There were one hundred and sixteen hammered coins, all silver. Each item was estimated to be at least nine hundred years old and were most likely the treasured belongings of a regional clan chieftain. It was one of the single greatest archeological finds and virtually priceless. They were returned to James Murphy Jnr, who had agreed to donate them to the National Museum and arrangements were made for their collection the following day. However, James Murphy Jnr has always maintained that his home was burgled that night and the entire hoard was stolen. They have never been seen since.”

Sherlock is flicking through the book on his lap, examining the photos and maps. He hands the book to his husband  “Was there a police investigation?”

“Of course, headed by Inspector Joseph Walsh. He narrowed the theft down to two main suspects; a local man and this man.” He hands Sherlock a black and white photo of a middle-aged man with a severe centre parting in his heavily brylcreemed hair and a sharp nose, “Charles Burk was a travelling salesman, selling agricultural implements and products. He had been staying in the village the night before and left early the morning after the alleged burglary. They tracked him but each time The Guards thought they had caught up with him, he’d moved on. He was travelling up the west coast, only stopping for a few hours in each location. You need to understand, this was a time when very few people had a telephone and communications were slow. Doyle then crossed the border into Northern Ireland and so moved into the jurisdiction of the British and the Royal Ulster Constabulary. That made things even more complicated as the two forces had an often difficult working relationship and co-operation was a rare thing. Burke was last sighted as he entered Co. Antrim two days after the burglary. He also was never seen again.”

Eoin passes Sherlock another document, this time a map of the route Doyle was believed to have taken. As he does so, he winks at John. They both watch Sherlock for a moment as he realises that Doyle’s route is the same one John has planned for their own trip. Sherlock pretends to study the map for longer than is really necessary as he takes in this fact, his heart swelling. This is possibly the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for Sherlock and he is rather overwhelmed. He looks at John from under his eyelashes for a moment; his new husband is gazing back fondly. Sherlock wishes Eoin Fitzgerald would disappear, but as they are in his office, that seems unlikely. He makes a decision and gathers himself.

“Professor Fitzgerald, I already know the Hoard was then never seen again. What happened after that?”

“The Guards followed every lead they could, including the local man and James Murphy Jnr, and hit nothing but dead ends. A number of theories were developed and pursued but nothing came of it or the investigation into the disappearance of Charles Doyle. In 1971, Professor O’Neill took it on from an academic and historical viewpoint. He spent twenty years on and off looking for the hoard but without success. That book I gave you outlines all his research. He passed the gauntlet to me when I took over as Head of Department.”

John turns to study Eoin “And what do you think happened to the Hoard and Burke?”

Eoin shrugs, his red hair hitting off his slim shoulders. Sighing, his crosses his arms and sits back into his chair, taking a moment to think.

“I can’t say I have been as obsessed with the matter as Aiden O’Neill was. Personally, I am much more interested in the artifacts themselves and why they were buried in the bog, miles from anywhere and at least 15 miles from the known sites of clan residences. For me, that’s the bigger mystery with fewer clues. Honestly? I think Burke delivered the hoard into the hands of one group or another in the North. This was just before the start of The Troubles and there were a whole plethora of splinter groups who needed funds. I think they either sent Burke or he crossed paths with some group or another, was killed and the hoard smuggled out of the country and used to bankroll their plans. That would explain how it disappeared off the face of the earth and even now, no one involved will be talking. Those days are best left behind us.”

Sherlock abruptly stands and offers Eoin his hand.

“Thank you for your time, Professor. I shall be in touch should I need any further information. Come on John.”

Surprised at Sherlock’s abrupt desire to leave, John slurps the remains of his tea, stands and the men shake hands. Gathering the documents he has been given, Sherlock sweeps out of the room, John stammering their goodbyes. Eoin holds onto John’s hand for moment, squeezing it.

“Lovely to meet you John, after all our chats on the phone. Enjoy your trip.” John smiles at him, taken aback at the way the man has held onto his hand so long.

“You have been very helpful, thanks. I’m sure we’ll be in touch again soon.”

“You have my mobile number. Don’t hesitate to call.”

John has to launch into a trot to catch up to Sherlock who is striding down the corridor.

John is very much taken by surprise when having reached the stairwell, Sherlock captures his hand and pushes him up against the wall, devouring John’s mouth in a hard and needy kiss. When they both recover themselves and need to come up for air, Sherlock’s eyes are dark grey and glittering. He leans into John’s neck, sucking and nipping before breathing into his ear.

“Thank you John. The Game, is on.”

 

From his office window, Eoin Fitzgerald watches the two men stride away over the courtyard garden hand in hand. He had been rather taken with John when they had spoken on the phone but Sherlock had been a revelation. He watches them until they pass through the archway into the College’s main entrance, admiring the elegant way the taller man moves. When he can no longer see them, he lowers the window blind, then quietly locks his office door.

Professor Eoin Fitzgerald

 

Trinity College

 

A Kimberly biscuit

  
  



End file.
